


Trigger Finger, Target Heart

by WhiskeyRoseRiot



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, No Sex, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskeyRoseRiot/pseuds/WhiskeyRoseRiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey just wants to clean his guns and stop thinking about Ian's bizarre behavior. Fiona, of course, interrupts for a heart to heart. Shit.</p>
<p>Set on a night just after Fi comes back under house arrest while Mickey's crashing at the Gallagher home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger Finger, Target Heart

**Author's Note:**

> First ever uploaded Shameless fic and first time using AO3. Be kind! I can't help it. Mickey's mind is a wonderful thing to get into. As are his pants, I'm sure.
> 
> Rating is mostly for language and brief mention of prostitution. But it's Shameless...so that's a given.

-  
  
It’s four-thirty a.m. and Mickey Milkovich can’t fucking sleep. Again. The floor is hard as a god damn rock and the pillow reeks of his not-at-all-but-maybe-kind-of boyfriend. Then again, he prefers this shit hole to the other shit hole, the one with his wife and that ugly, screaming thing she calls his kid. Yeah, fuck that.

He sits up and groans, looking to where Ian’s sleeping like the dead in his bed, the traitorous prick, and grabs one of the pillowcases he’d stashed beneath the rickety bed frame. Guns need cleaning. No time like the present. He stands and creeps out of the room; he may only give two shits about one member of this family, but he fucking despises when people wake _him_ up in the dead of night so whatever, he’s feeling charitable. The stairs creak as he makes his way down to the kitchen and he flips on a single light.

Jesus, this house is too damn quiet at night. It’s not natural.

He drops into a chair and spreads the guns and necessary supplies out on the table. After twenty minutes, he feels the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, and he cracks his neck and sighs in relief. Guns are easy. Mickey knows how to handle them, load them, shoot them, clean them, knows everything there is to know about them. A Glock is different from a Beretta in the sense that it _is_ and he _knows_ it. Guns, they’re simple, unattached, serve their purpose. They’re not confusing like people. Like a person. Just one person. Guns don’t disappoint him or scare him or leave him one day and come back a completely different gun. And you can’t hold one in your hand and shoot yourself without pulling the fucking trigger, which is so not true when it comes to people. Humans, they can shoot you right in the heart at point blank range with an empty chamber and it’ll hurt worse than dying.

Son of a _bitch_ , he’s pathetic.

            “Quite the arsenal you got.”

Mickey freezes in the process of packing in a .45 clip. The sister – the jailbird one, not the kid – settles into a chair on his right. He makes a point to avoid her eyes. The Gallaghers have these fucking eyes, man, even the runt, the kind that make you squirm if you look too long. Not that he’ll ever say that out loud because he’s not a little bitch, thank you very god damn much. He shoves the ammo away and reaches for a smoke instead.

            “Not even a third of what I got at home,” he offers through pinched lips as he lights the end of his cigarette.

            “Oh, you mean the one you’re avoiding?”

            “Fuck you.”

She snorts, which is annoying as shit because no one in this family takes him seriously anymore and ain’t that a kick in the balls?

            “The hell do you want?” he asks, pulling the ashtray from the other side of the table to rest at his elbow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her shrug and tuck her knees up to her chest. The house arrest monitor is bulky on her thin ankle.

            “My house,” she says. “I gotta have a reason to be awake in it?”

            “Whatever,” he mumbles, ashing the end of the cigarette.

There’s a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence that passes between them. His stomach cramps. He just wants to clean his guns in peace and maybe sleep for an hour or two before the rest of the clan starts stomping around. Is that so much to fucking ask?

            “So how’s the wife and kid?” she asks after a few minutes.

            “Don’t know,” he says, taking another drag, “don’t give a shit.”

            “Well that’ll win you father of the year,” she says.

            “Jesus, the thing might not even be mine. She’s a whore in every sense of the fucking word, alright?”

            “Why not get a paternity test then?”

            “Because that’d involve talkin’ to her and being around the damn thing and I don’t even wanna look at it. So just fucking drop it.”

            “That why you’re sleeping on our floor?” she presses.

Christ, but this bitch has some _balls_.

            “Ian said I could,” he says before she has the chance to tell him to get the hell out.

            “I’m not sayin’ you can’t.”

            “Then what’s with the interrogation?”

            “You and Ian,” she says, and Mickey feels like he might puke all over the table, “you’re friends?”

Relief washes over him, but it’s only a brief reprieve from the worry churning in his gut.

            “Yeah? You got a point?”

            “You guys have just been hanging out a lot,” she says. “Makes me wonder if there’s something I don’t know.”

            “What, so it’s a fucking crime for dudes to be friends with other dudes?”

            “Jesus, can you stow your defensive macho bullshit for five minutes and let me ask about my brother?” she snaps. “He shows up on our doorstep after bein’ gone for months and suddenly you two are stuck together like glue. And since I can’t leave the house and he works nights I thought that maybe, just _maybe_ you might be able to tell me if you think something’s wrong with him.”

            “He’s _your_ brother.”

            “Yeah, well he’s _your_ -”

            “You finish that sentence and I’ll pick up that Glock and shoot you in the mouth, I swear to god.”

            “Look,” she says in a hard tone, jaw stern, “ _whatever_ Ian is to you, I don’t care, Mickey. I don’t care if he’s your friend or – I just wanna know if you think there’s somethin’ going on with him.”

            “If you think there’s somethin’ _not_ then you’re blind as fuck.”

He finally meets her eyes then, and he really, really wishes he didn’t because she looks scared shitless, and a Gallagher, like a Milkovich, knows showing it’s a death wish.

            “The kid joined the god damn army,” he says when she’s silent for too long. “All he ever wanted was to be an officer and then he _enlisted_ and fucked off to kiss some asshole’s boots for four years. And then he bailed. You even know where he works?”

            “At some club downtown,” she says.

Mickey scoffs and snubs out his cigarette.

            “Oh, he works at a club, that’s for fuckin’ sure. Dancin around in a pair of glittery gold nut huggers for a bunch of queers, suckin’ strange dick for a couple of bills and rollin’ out of his fucking mind. He was the most ambitious little shit I ever knew and now any time you try and tell him he’s screwing up he just laughs in your face. That something wrong enough for ya?”

Tears begin to well in her eyes and Mickey drags a hand down his face. Jesus, why do they always have to _cry_?

            “But you’re looking out for him right?” she asks. “You’re takin’ care of him when we’re not around?”

            “I look like a knight in shining armor to you?”

            “Just tell me you give a damn!” she hisses, eyes red and wet. “Whatever you are to him, just tell me that you care enough to make sure no one hurts him while we figure out why he’s doin’ this to himself, alright? Can you get your head out of your ass and do that for me? Or at least do it for _him_? Otherwise, what the fuck are you even doing here?”

            “Fine!” Mickey snaps, the image of Ian passed out in the snow outside the club burned into his retinas like a god damn brand on his memory. “Fuck, fine, okay? Yes, I’m takin’ care of him.”

She pauses, mouth snapping closed, and stares back at him with those too-big, teary eyes. Mickey frowns. The fuck is that look for?

            “You are?” she asks in disbelief.

            “Christ, what is it with you chicks? We give you what you want and either you think we’re lying out of our asses or we got some ulterior fucking motive or some shit.”

            “No, I just – I never thought I’d see the day Mickey Milkovich gave a damn about anyone else.”

            “Yeah, well don’t worry, I’m sure Hell’s freezin’ over as we speak. Now we done here?”

She still looks a little dazed, but she wipes her eyes and nods.

            “Thanks, Mickey.”

            “Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t say a fucking thing.”

And then the broad’s got the gall to _smile_ , like they’re _friends_ , which just makes his skin crawl. She finally leaves though, thank god. Mickey looks back to his not-at-all legal spread of weaponry scattered atop the Gallaghers’ kitchen table.

Yeah, guns are easy, and he knows his way around them. But they still need cleaning. And parts still jam and parts still break, and he’s gotta fix ‘em when they do. They still need lookin’ after. Like people. Like a person. One person.

A few hours later, when the guns are stowed away and everyone’s in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating pancakes, Ian’s spouting some bullshit about how nice it is to hear the birds sing when he wakes up in the morning. Mickey shares a glance with the jailbird sister.

Knights can carry guns, right?

-

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> There ya have it! Hope you liked! It took me couple days to work up the courage to post, tbh. 
> 
> Also, I'm not 100% sure Fi doesn't know about Ian's job; I rewatched eps and never heard a specific conversation or a line explaining, so I took liberties in assuming she doesn't know completely. Sorry if I didn't catch something about that!


End file.
